Win, Losses and Everything in Between
by scullyseviltwin
Summary: She thinks she sees him smile, but she's not sure it's so rare when it happens, a genuine smile from him, that if he actually did smile at her while talking anything other than business she'd be severely freaked. 30Rock. JackLiz.


Real title: Wins, Losses and the Everything in Between That No One Cares About Except You (And Maybe Him Too)

Thanks: To the lovliness that is cuttingrmflr for her beta, and to scully5590 for her vehemence that bears are SUPER funny, all the time.

* * *

He's the sort of man that should smell like cigarettes and drink whiskey. No, not whiskey, she amends; and not cigarettes either. He's the sort of man, that when you look at him, you can imagine a cigar between his lips and a tumbler of expensive, aged scotch in his hand.

She constantly imagines him like this because she's seen him do that so many times; that doesn't mean, of course, that when _other_ people look at him, they wouldn't imagine him doing that. Jack Donaghy just looks like that kind of man. He looks like that kind of man because his is that kind of man.

Liz Lemon ponders this over a jelly donut and a can of Diet Coke, not noticing when some soda sloshes over the side of the can to land on her pants; they're black slacks, it shouldn't matter. There should be more to do; there's a rehearsal in two hours and the rewrites have been rewritten twice and Toofer has emailed her several links of amusing YouTube clips, but she chooses to sit there and think about Jack.

She sits and thinks about Jack lighting a cigar and thinks about how it fits between his lips, thinks about whether or not he could blow smoke rings (odds are, he totally can). There are plenty of other things she can think about, like Spiderman 3, the new flats she wants from 9 West or the color she wants to paint her living room walls (ugh, she is so done with white).

But she wonders how much he pays for his scotch and what it tastes like and why he likes scotch so much anyway; it's an old man's drink and he's certainly not old. Well, not that old; maybe old in comparison to say, Cerie, but not in comparison to her. She's not old. Maybe she's old, it doesn't matter, but that would make him _very_ old, and Liz doesn't like to think that.

Her donut is gone before she can think about it, and she nearly bites her fingers in the mechanical up-down motion that her breakfast requires. Frowning, Liz clicks on the television and pretends that she's into The Today Show before she flips to Cartoon Network and catches the tail end of a Tom and Jerry. Classic.

'Lemon,' she thinks, 'This is really the definition of pathetic.' And then she realizes that she's referring to herself as Lemon in her own head and rolls her eyes. Hard.

It doesn't make her laugh, but she smiles and thinks about all of her strange tendencies and how they're really not strange at all when compared to his. What frightens her specifically is his knowledge of women's couture, a subject that he's entirely too well-versed in. And shoes, why does he care so much about what she wears? She does she care that he cares what she wears? How come she lets him get away with so much? Huh? _Huh?_

Taking a glance down at herself, she realizes the dark spot on her pants and swipes at it with her thumb, "Damn it." She curses, and it's that moment that he decides to stroll in, completely unannounced, of course.

And _that_ too, how come _he's_ allowed to stroll in to her office whenever his little heart desires and she has to knock, wait for Jonathan to confirm, glare at her and confirm again and then go in. Rolling her eyes, she shuts off the television and fixes him with a slight glare.

"Because I'm your boss Lemon, that's why," he says, glancing back out of her office, one hand pressing his tie to his chest, the other balling into a fist at his side. Reading her freaking mind again, doing that thing where he's twelve steps ahead of her; she hates that. Hates. It.

Liz is perplexed; aside from his many talents, he's also a mind reader? "How did you-"

"That crease in your forehead, it's like Star Magazine, very easy to read, but bad for you." Jack blinks and slides onto her couch, hands perched on his knees; she wonders if they give him problems when it rains. (She needs to stop wondering entirely.) "Seriously, there's not enough botox in the world to fix the trenches that glares will cause."

These are the moments that make her want to slap him, but not hard; just a slight slap on the arm or the chest. She has a feeling that behavior like that would have elicited the same reaction back when she was in college. Jack makes her regress in all of these strange ways, in ways that make her constantly question her behavior. Maybe she wouldn't _glare_ so much if he stopped acting so much like... him.

Mouth sliding into a frown, she thinks that this will cause wrinkles too, but he says nothing, just rubs the palms of his hands on his slacks and watches her. "Is there something you wanted or did you just come in to berate my lack of feminine behavior?" It comes out easy, a sort of banter that's actually more stress-relieving than it is stressful. That interests her too, and she wonders why, but she's too busy entering into a fresh banter that she doesn't have any real presence of mind to think about it. "Again," she adds, as though an afterthought.

She thinks she sees him smile, but she's not sure; it's so rare when it happens, a genuine smile from him, that if he actually _did_ smile at her (while talking anything _other_ than business) she'd be severely freaked. Like really, really freaked. "Bears, Lemon." He says it maybe like Dwight from The Office would, it makes her laugh; she should watch that more often…

He snaps her back to reality by actually snapping. Who_ does_ that? She should be demeaned, but he's already busy telling her the logistics of the plan.

This cannot lead anywhere good, and she knows this. But what kind of day would it be if she weren't graced with a slice of his insanity? (Really, she doesn't know what she would do. She realizes that she's almost like a dog-golden retriever she decides-and has all of these almost-Pavlovian responses to him.) Eyes pulling a little at the sides and Liz swallows; she can't really prepare for this, has learned to not even bother because she's not talking him out of it. So... something with bears. Okay.

"So, something with bears. Okay." ...this is… So. Not. Okay.

And that's when his face breaks into a grin and she feels like she's going to vomit. A grin; this really can't be good because when he gets his really good ideas, he grins like that. His really good ideas are really bad ideas-really-and rarely result in anything other than lawsuits. Retainer, she reminds herself, they have an attorney on retainer. "Live bears?" Why does she bother asking? She knows. Why do they bother having conversations anymore? He could grin, she could roll her eyes, he'd do it anyway and the cycle would repeat. She really doesn't actually play a part in any of this, why do they bother anymore?

It's a sick, endless cycle, and she doesn't know how to stop enjoying it.

That's when the hands begin to flail (in that way that only he can); he's a very animated speaker when he's vehement about something and she likes that about him, but the hands aren't a good sign either. "Think about it; they dance! Jenna, I'm thinking we have Jenna waltz with them, tango maybe, I haven't thought that far ahead. We can call it... 'Dancing With the Bears.'" There's no funny; there's nothing amusing about the idea. Like, nothing at all. Zeeeer-oh.

It makes no sense, there is no sense to be found in his suggestion. "You realize there's honestly nothing funny about that, and Jenna will probably lose her face in the process." It's deadpan, the way she speaks, and his lips quiver a little, not falling, but not really smiling any longer.

Jack blinks and stiffens, "Yes, funny. And the injury will skyrocket her publicity; it's win-win." And he really thinks this, that it's a win-win. How, how in the world did he get this far up the corporate ladder with ideas like… that?

"Except for... Jenna loses her face, and that's a... loss." It seems like the logical thing to say; why would she say it otherwise? She couldn't possibly want to continue the argument... Even though she knows the ASPCA won't like it, and GE won't approve and they probably don't have room in the budget for large, angry animals.

There's nothing she can do, and she sees this idea of his just, just snowballing and she wants another donut. Like, really, really bad.

Jack licks his lip and sighs, rolling his eyes before he stands. "It's 11:30, just late enough for lunch; care to join me?" His eyes are sincere, so she doesn't bother to crack a joke.

Liz blinks, face and mind blank; wait, what? "Well, there's rehearsal and…"

"I wasn't asking, Lemon," he says, voice laced with that starchiness that no longer intimidates her.

"Yeah but you were asking-" No time for semantics Lemon.

Jack shakes his head and moves towards the door, "The car will be downstairs in ten minutes." He's out the door before he adds, "And change that shirt, this won't be a nachos and hot wings type of place."

Another insult, but her stomach screws up and she can't help but smile. She tells herself that it's because a five course meal is much better than stale donuts (or nachos and hot wings for that matter); she tells herself that the prospect of dessert (cream puffs? Oh, she hopes) is making her grin like a fool and not the prospect of his company.

As she searches around for another shirt (why? She doesn't know.) she also pretends that she doesn't remember what Bianca said about her. She pretends that the only woman Jack ever loved told her that he…

Nevermind.

Told her that Jack… no really, nevermind.

They haven't talked about the fact that she's still his emergency contact, and they haven't discussed how almost-awkward it was, sitting in his hospital room. They hadn't discussed how she had shrieked when he reached over and grabbed her hand, effectively spurring her to knock the pitcher of water all over him. But mostly, they hadn't talked about the fact that he'd grabbed her hand in the first place.

A debacle, to be sure, but it hadn't felt wrong. Not that it felt totally right… but, not wrong.

When she meets him downstairs on the sidewalk, he's eying the end of a thick cigar. Jack slides it back into his pocket, smoothly. He'll order a small appetizer and a glass of scotch, on the rocks. She_ knows_ him-she's beginning to realize that-really knows him. It doesn't unsettle her as much as she would expect…

Even when he opens the door for her and comments on the unhealthy size of her backside.

Figures… at least there'll be dessert.


End file.
